The Payment

by Michelle E Lowe

  “You haven’t eaten?” she noted, turning back to her mother. “You haven’t eaten a thing since finding Joaquin?”

  “Since before that, child. The less I consume, the better I can see.”

  Nona was more than accustomed to her mother’s particular nature. Her recent behavior, though, downright frightened her.

  She set the plate down and sat in front of her mother. “Mère, you’re scaring me. What is going on?”

  Her mother opened her eyes. “It is in your right to know, Nona.” A deep sigh. “Your son is in grave danger.”

  “Pierce?” she said fretfully. “What is happening to him?”

  “He’s been arrested in London. He is facing the death penalty.”

  A piece of her soul slipped away from her. “No. Can’t anything be done? Isn’t your protection upon him?”

  “I can no longer protect him. I must use every ounce of my energy to break down Freya’s shield.”

  “You’re abandoning him?” she whimpered. “How could you?”

  Her mother tilted her head sideways and looked at her in wonder.

  Ever since discovering Joaquin’s location, Élie had become an entirely different person. It was difficult for Nona to understand, but it was as though she had grown to be more than what she had been before. Nona sensed it about her.

  “I have to,” her mother admitted. “I cannot continue to protect what is constantly being attacked at close range. If I do not help take down the assailant, she’ll only proceed and ultimately, win in the end. Freya must be killed.”

  “But my son!” Nona cried in agony.

  “He may die.”

  Tears instantly gushed from Nona’s eyes. Her greatest fear since Pierce left was coming true.

  “Nona, listen to me, and believe me when I say this isn’t out of flippancy.”

  With a sniff, she lifted her head. “Oui, ma mère?”

  “Go away. The more you bother me, the less chance I have of saving your son.”

  Her stern tone was quick to harden Nona’s resolve. Her own mother was jeopardizing her health in order to be successful in stopping a threat that had loomed over the family for decades, and Nona needed to stop her blubbering before her actions destroyed all of Élie’s efforts.

  With a curt nod, she stood. “I shall make certain you are not disturbed.”

  Nona headed out just as her mother called to her. “Do not tell anyone—especially Taisia—about anything I have told you.”

  “A wife should be informed about her husband.”

  “Oui. However, she and Pierce are linked together by the love they hold for each other. They are part of one another so much that it will be very difficult for one to carry on without the other. Taisia is in a state where she needs him the most, and if she learns he may not return . . . then I fear for her life and the lives of her unborn.”

  “Do you believe she would harm herself?”

  “No, but in her condition, she may not be able to withstand the impact of the loss or even the threat of loss. Her heart may simply give out. C’est bien compris?”

  Nona did understand, for she had fallen so deeply in love with Jasper that it burned her soul. To this day, she would look at him and nearly weep from the swell of affection she felt toward him. It was no different between Pierce and Taisia.

  “Oui. I shall say not a word.”

  With that, she left her mother’s hut.

  * * *

  Élie Fey walked the windy path up the tall mountain. The high heels of her tasseled boots worked well in the rugged terrain. The way was long, but it did little to steal an ounce of her energy. Like the journey before, she needed to make this trip up the mountain. If she wanted to see him, she needed to climb.

  She followed the path. The wind blew around her, taking her lengthy white hair and moving it in its gentle flow. The hem of her day gown also danced in the breeze, as did the hem of her long coat. The air was cool and kind. The grass and flowers flourished.

  Other mountains surrounded her, their bases blurred by a heavy mist. Some rose so high that snow covered the peaks. When Élie crested the top, she took a moment to admire the scenery before entering the stone temple that bore no door, only an open archway straight through.

  The place was only a cold, hollowed-out stone structure, utterly vacant inside. She walked on, passing through the next archway opening just ahead. Out in the back, a man dressed in a tattered grey robe was standing among colorful orchid flowers. He was chopping down a tree. With a final whack of his ax, the tree trunk cracked and pitched forward. The pine tree that once stood tall collapsed in a heap on the edge of the mountain’s cliff. Its dead brown needles wafted up.

  With the tree down, the man in the robe turned to her. “Welcome to my realm, Élie Fey.”

  “Hello, Priest. I thank you for seeing me.”

  The Priest threw the ax blade into the tree, embedding the sharp edge into the trunk. “Do you understand why I cut this tree down?”

  “Oui. It is dead. Dead wood serves no purpose other than to replenish the earth with its body or be used for warmth.”

  “Or to build a shelter, or sculpt a statue,” the Priest added as he approached.

  He was not even winded from his task. No sweat dappled his light brown skin.

  “Then you should carve something from it,” Élie suggested.

  He stopped and looked at her. “Perhaps.”

  His slanted, piercing dark eyes were filled with so much knowledge and experience. He wore sandals made of wood and his robe was tied by a simple rope around his waist. His head was completely bald from his brow to the middle of his head. There, hair sprouted over the rest of his scalp, reaching down to the middle of his back. He seemed to stand on the cusp of age and youth, looking more like one or the other at certain angles.

  “You are wise, Fey,” he complimented her, tying his hair back. “Otherwise, you would not be here. You have awakened your mind.”

  “I have.”

  “And in doing so, you have gained insight into what many will never see even if they live a thousand times over.”

  “Oui.”

  “Including my rules, which I have designed for the djinn.”

  “I have seen them.”

  The Priest scratched at his goatee. “Freya is dangerous.”

  “I agree.”

  “She knows too much, and she’ll never stop until she succeeds. Or draws attention to herself or to someone else who wishes to create a djinn.”

  “Until the god who is protecting her perishes, there is little Orenda and I can do to kill her. However, I have a plan of my own.”

  “And you trust that your grandson is going to do what is right?” he asked, already sensing her idea. “This is a huge risk we’re taking, Fey.”

  “I have every confidence he will. I know my grandson. He’ll not have to be told to do this.”

  “Bah!” the Priest grunted, walking away. “I should have done better by ensuring the djinn could never be reborn.”

  “You did what you thought was best, Priest. This is nature—trying to survive. You were wise to have foreseen that. You understood that in time, the djinn’s energies would collect themselves and become one. That is why you made rules, making it more difficult for them to do so. If it weren’t for such laws, the djinn would have most certainly been reborn already.” She approached and walked over to face him. “But we have an advantage in stopping it. All I need is your trust and your blessing.”

  He considered her.

  “Priest. I understand you aren’t happy about your secret rules becoming known, but what’s done is done. Out of respect, I have come here to ask you to allow me to act, for it’s the only way to put an end to this for good. Do I have your permission?”

  Again, he only stared at her, and for a single heartbeat that hurt her chest, she feared he would deny her.

  “Shì,” he permitted. “You have my permission.”

  * * *

  It had been quit
e a search, but Robin had managed to find Landcross. Sees Beyond had asked her spirits where Pierce had gone, and their response was that he went to London. The next evening, Robin took the last ferryboat to Southampton, where he fed from a rapist preying on whores. He then bought a train ticket to London. The trip lasted two hours, but the search to find Landcross took a couple of nights. His discovery led him to the Clerkenwell House of Detention.

  He stood outside the door, staring at the prison, straining to keep himself from charging in. He needed a day for word to spread about Landcross’s capture, a day longer for the docks to open up and the Royal Navy to disband their searches. By next nightfall, he could free Landcross and they could board a ferry to the Netherlands, and then make their way down to France. Robin already had the tickets in his pocket.

  One more sunset and Robin would rescue his ill-accused friend. This he swore on his immortal life.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Trial

  Sleeping in shackles—even though it wasn’t for the first time—had nonetheless proven unpleasant. Not that Pierce got much sleep, anyway. Many things kept him awake. Aside from dealing with his physical pains and the cold, he was also mourning for Frederica. He wept halfway through the night until he could no longer cry.

  Frederica was one of the Four who needed to be eliminated, and Freya had made damn sure of it.

  If only he had known sooner about Kolt, perhaps Pierce would not have been so quick to rush into harm’s way. Until last night, he was under the impression that the child Freya was after was his second son, Joaquin, and he’d had faith Grandmother Fey would protect him. He wondered how Orenda’s plan was going. He reckoned that now it was a race against time. First to the finish—that sort of thing. Freya had indeed come up with the perfect trap. Getting him into prison, and charged with high treason to the Crown was a surefire way to lead him straight to the gallows.

  It wasn’t long after he opened his eyes that Darius entered his cell, carrying a lantern. With him was Luke, holding a bowl.

  “Eat up quickly,” Darius demanded. “You’re due in court soon.”

  Darius appeared just as exhausted as he was. No doubt, the bloke had slept the night inside a vacant cell in order to stay close. At least he didn’t have to wear bloody manacles.

  “A trial already, eh?” He rubbed behind his sore neck.

  “The Prince has arranged it personally. Yesterday, as well as last night, we gathered witnesses.”

  Pierce slowly stood from the cot and shook his head. “To testify against me, no doubt.”

  “You will receive a fair trial,” Darius retorted, “which is more than what you deserve.”

  There hadn’t been many times when Pierce complained about the unfairness that life had dealt him. Injustice was simply a part of life. Going to trial for sticking his neck out for others, however, was fucking preposterous!

  Darius handed the lantern to Luke. “Have him ready to depart within the hour.”

  “It shall be done,” Luke promised as the Persian left.

  Luke set the bowl on the cot. “Enjoy,” he snickered.

  Pierce leaned over to study the so-called “food” inside the bowl. He snarled. If gruel could have a bad day, it would look like this. He suspected the chunky grey slop was nothing more than ground-up rat meat. A bubble floated up and burst as though something vile breathed beneath the surface. He reckoned he wouldn’t be eating while imprisoned.

  Within a half hour, Darius’s personal soldiers came for him. They walked him through the cellblock and out to the prison’s inner ward, where a prison wagon waited. The soldiers forced him inside with a number of armed guards, and once they had secured him, the gate was opened and out they went. A crowd was waiting outside. They screamed and cursed at him, calling him a traitor. They were already assuming he was guilty of trying to kill their queen. However, others cheered and declared their love for him.

  The carriage moved on and soon they reached the Old Sessions House.

  The courtroom was a large space packed full of spectators. People were being turned away at the door. Countless armed guards were marching about, keeping sharp eyes on everything going on.

  The room was lively with loud chatter, and the stands were all but taken. Clerks were seated at their station below the magistrate’s bench, checking their fountain pens to make sure they were in good working order. If typewriters did not make such a loud clickety-clack noise, they’d be using them instead of old-fashioned pen and paper—or the three phonautographs set up in the room with operators standing behind each machine, ready to turn the cranks when the trial began.

  Pierce sorely did not want to go into the room. He didn’t fancy the idea of standing before all those wankers who were casting their own judgment over him. Despite those who seemed to idolize him—mainly due to Clover’s novels—most had already branded him as an assassin. If he were given over to them to do with as they pleased, he had no doubt they’d rip him apart.

  He had always feared this day would come—enduring a circus of a trial that undoubtedly would not end well in his favor. Frankly, it’d be a lot less of a waste of time to send him straight to the scaffold.

  A man with his cheeks and nose red from the room’s bitter cold shouted, “Bring in the prisoner!”

  Pierce had been kept in a small holding area. When the man called for him to be brought out, a guard behind him nudged him on with the butt of a rifle. With the chains of his ankle irons scraping with each step, Pierce followed another guard through the threshold and into the courtroom.

  The noisy chatter softened to busy muttering. Pierce closed his ears off to the onlookers as he continued toward the dock located in the middle of the room between the counselor’s tables.

  Pierce stepped into the dock and the guard closed the short gate behind him.

  “Mr. Landcross?” a chubby young man wearing round spectacles called softly.

  He, like the rest of the members of the court, was dressed in a black robe and powdered wig. His wig, which appeared to be secondhand, was a bit disheveled.

  “Aye?” Pierce said.

  “Hello,” he greeted, adjusting the papers he carried so he could hold out his hand. “I’m Euan Wood, your defense barrister.”

  “I have an barrister?” he asked, reaching over the waist-high railing with his shackled hand.

  The man’s palm was extremely sweaty. Pierce quickly pulled his away and blotted it on his britches.

  “Indeed, Mr. Landcross. I’ve been assigned to you by the city.”

  “I see.”

  “My,” observed Euan nervously, “there sure are a lot of people here.”

  Pierce pressed his lips together. “Assigned, you say? Londoners’ money well spent, eh?”

  “All rise!” called the bailiff. “The honorable Lord Laird Spencer presiding.”

  “Uh-oh,” muttered Euan as everyone stood. “I wasn’t aware he was going to be the magistrate in this case.”

  “What?” Pierce demanded.

  “Erm, Judge Spencer and I have a bit of a nasty history.”

  “Oh?” Pierce said with disdain. “Do tell.”

  “I may have left his daughter at the altar last spring.”

  Pierce shook his head. He’d be better off representing his own damn self.

  As his so-called defense barrister scurried over behind his table, Magistrate Spencer, dressed in his own black robe and long wig, stepped through a doorway located beside his bench. He climbed up a short set of stairs to his chair at the bench and took a seat.

  The judge had long jowls like those of an English bulldog. “You may be seated,” he said.

  Everyone but Pierce, who had no chair, sat down. Pierce was only thankful he wasn’t dizzy any longer from his head wound.

  The magistrate causally read off the paper on his desk. He peered over his reading glasses and those jowls of his moved as he said drearily, “Counselor Wood. How good it is to see you again.”

  The lad shot up fr
om his chair, knocking it backward. People laughed. Pierce was not amused.

  “Y-Your Honor,” he stuttered before turning to pick the chair up. “You’re looking well.”

  The magistrate removed his reading spectacles and glared at him. Euan cleared his throat, set his chair upright, and slowly sat back down in this seat. The magistrate turned his focus on Pierce.

  In a deep strong voice that resonated throughout the room, he announced, “Let us proceed with the trial. Pierce Landcross, you stand accused of railway robbery and high treason to the Crown. What is your plea?”

  Pierce was about to answer for himself when his attorney got to his feet again. “Guilty, Your Honor.”

  “What?” Pierce exclaimed.

  “Pardon?” said Euan with surprise.

  “Not!” Pierce corrected, whipping his head around to the judge, “Not guilty, milord.”

  Euan shuffled through his notes. “Oh, dear, I suppose I should have asked beforehand.”

  Pierce closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

  “Very well,” Magistrate Spencer allowed. “Let the records show that the defendant has pled ‘not guilty’.”

  The clerks documented everything in their logs. The operators at the phonautographs kept an eye on the stylus etching marks in the lampblack paper, which was wrapped around the record as the vibrations of the voices caused them to move.

  “Let us proceed,” the judge said. “Counselor Matthew Beckham, you may begin with your opening statement.”

  A tall scarecrow of a man stood from the prosecutor’s table and gave a formal bow. “Thank you, my lord.” The skinny man then addressed the men seated inside the jury box. “Gentlemen of the jury, allow me to indulge you with a brief history of Pierce Landcross. And once you hear about his wicked deeds, you will without a doubt be convinced of this traitor’s guilt!”

  Wonderful, Pierce thought dolefully. I can’t bloody wait to hear this.